Summer’s vivid apple green silks and limes,
have faded blandly to a memory,
The bottle sage of autumn, prone underfoot,
no longer crackles, laughing with our heavy boots.
In sodden maroons squirrels rummage,
and shun the magpies chattering mockery,
Shrill portents hiss, bitter from the north,
tuned by fingers of the stripped-bare oak.
Only pearls of mistletoe await their hour,
to glisten moist above the Yule log’s flame.
In warm dark corners heavy dormant eyes,
bid the year failing adieu.
© 2007 Graham Sherwood
